~ Powers of Nations: A Countryhumans Chronicle

▶Chapter:35◀

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Warning⚠.

3rd person pov:

The abuse had grown more brutal. Each session left Russia increasingly broken, his body battered and bruised. Soviet's anger seemed to know no bounds, and his punishments were meted out with merciless precision. The siblings lived in constant fear, their hearts heavy with dread each time Soviet's temper flared.

This night, the household was tense as Soviet stormed through the halls, his face a mask of fury. Russia had been feeling unwell all day, his body wracked with fever. His skin burned with heat, and each movement sent waves of pain coursing through him. Despite his weakened state, he couldn't escape his father's wrath.

Russia tried to push through his illness, determined not to show any weakness. He knew that displaying vulnerability would only provoke his father's ire further. As he moved in the kitchen, his vision blurred, and he swayed on his feet. The fever raged within him, sapping his strength and clouding his mind.

Soviet found Russia in the kitchen, his face flushed with fever and his movements sluggish. Without a word, he grabbed Russia by the collar and threw him to the ground. The impact sent a jolt of pain through Russia's body, and he gasped as the air was forced from his lungs. The blows came hard and fast, each one a reminder of Soviet's overwhelming power.

"You useless weakling!" Soviet's voice thundered, each word punctuated by a vicious strike. "How dare you show weakness in this house!"

Russia tried to shield himself, curling into a ball to protect at least his vital organs. But his strength was sapped by the fever, and his attempts were feeble at best. He cried out in pain, his voice hoarse and desperate, but his pleas went unheard. The siblings watched in horror from the shadows, their fear growing with each passing day.

Soviet's fists and boots connected with Russia's body in a relentless assault. Every strike was a testament to his unbridled rage. Russia's vision swam with tears, and his breaths came in ragged gasps. The fever, combined with the pain, created a haze of suffering that consumed him.

"Please... stop..." Russia's voice was barely a whisper, his words lost in the torrent of his father's fury.

Soviet's rage seemed to know no bounds. He grabbed Russia by the hair, yanking his head back to look him in the eyes. The pain was excruciating, and Russia's scalp burned where his father's fingers dug into his flesh.

"You think you can defy me? You think you can show weakness and get away with it?" Soviet's breath was hot and acrid, filled with the stench of alcohol. "You are nothing! Nothing!"

With a final, brutal shove, Soviet released Russia, sending him sprawling to the ground. He stood over him, his chest heaving with exertion, before turning and storming out of the room. Russia lay there, barely conscious, his body a throbbing mass of pain.

Once Soviet had left, Weimar hurried to Russia's side. He found him lying in a pool of sweat and blood, his breathing shallow and labored. The sight of Russia's fragile body, broken and feverish, stirred something deep within him. He couldn't ignore what he had witnessed any longer.

Weimar knelt beside Russia, his hands gentle as he assessed the extent of his injuries. "Hang in there," he whispered, his voice filled with concern. "I'm going to get you out of here."

Carefully, Weimar lifted Russia, cradling him in his arms as he carried him to his room. The sight of Russia's battered body, so fragile,broken and barely weights nothing, made Weimar's heart ache. He could feel the heat radiating from Russia's fevered skin, and he knew that immediate care was necessary.

In Russia's room, Weimar gently laid him on the bed. He fetched a bowl of cold water and a cloth, dabbing Russia's forehead to bring down the fever. As he tended to him, Weimar noticed something strange. The edges of white feathers peeked out from beneath Russia's shirt.

Curiosity and concern warred within him. Weimar gently lifted Russia's shirt, revealing a pair of beautiful, albeit battered, wings. The sight took his breath away. He had never imagined such a thing was possible. The wings were a symbol of both beauty and suffering, a stark reminder of the torment Russia had endured.

Weimar's mind raced with questions. 'Why had Russia hidden this from him? What other secrets did this family hold?' He sat by Russia's side, watching over him as he slept fitfully, the fever slowly subsiding.

Russia's fever raged throughout the night. His body shivered uncontrollably, and sweat drenched his sheets. Weimar stayed by his side, changing the cold cloth on his forehead and whispering soothing words. He could see the pain etched into Russia's face, even in his sleep, and it tore at his heart.

As the first light of dawn broke through the curtains, Russia began to stir. His eyes fluttered open, and he looked around the room in confusion. The events of the previous night were a blur, but the pain in his body was a harsh reminder of what had transpired.

Weimar, seeing Russia awake, leaned in closer. "How are you feeling?" he asked softly, his voice filled with genuine concern.

Russia winced as he tried to sit up, every movement sending jolts of pain through his body. "I've been better," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Weimar nodded, his expression sympathetic. "You have wings," he said gently, his eyes searching Russia's face for any reaction.

Russia's heart pounded in his chest. He had been discovered. The secret he had guarded so fiercely was now known to Weimar. He struggled to sit up, wincing as pain shot through his body. "I... I didn't want you to know," Russia whispered, his voice trembling. "It's a part of me that's been used against me. I didn't want you to see it."

Weimar shook his head. "You shouldn't have to hide who you are. No one should."

Tears welled in Russia's eyes as he looked at Weimar. The kindness and understanding in his gaze were almost too much to bear. For the first time in a long while, Russia felt a glimmer of warmth.

"Please," Russia pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. "Don't tell my father. Act like you didn't see anything. Please."

Weimar hesitated, then nodded slowly. "I won't tell anyone," he promised. "But you don't have to carry this burden alone."

Meanwhile, Soviet's anger cast a long shadow over the household. The siblings' fear of their father grew with each passing day. They clung to each other for comfort, their bond strengthened by the shared trauma.

Weimar, too, felt the weight of Soviet's presence. He had come to this family hoping to find a place to belong, but the darkness that pervaded the house was suffocating. He couldn't understand why Soviet treated Russia with such cruelty, but he knew he had to do something to protect him.

As Russia recovered from his fever, he remained distant from Weimar. The older one became a source of comfort and strength, a beacon of light in the darkness, but Russia kept his guard up, wary of letting anyone too close. Together, they navigated the treacherous waters of their lives, finding moments of peace amidst the chaos.

But the secrets of the past continued to haunt them. Soviet's rage was an ever-present threat, and the memory of Russia's torment at the hands of TR lingered in the air. The siblings watched in silence, their hearts heavy with fear and uncertainty.

In the midst of this turmoil, Russia and Weimar's bond remained unspoken. They understood each other's pain and found solace in their shared experiences, though Russia's distance was a constant reminder of the walls he had built around himself. Weimar could only hope that, one day, those walls might come down.

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End of chapter...